


Cold

by zoom



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bagginshield Fluffy February, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance, Slash, Thorin's like look at this smol precious thing, and lol bilbo, and now there be SMEX up in here, bagginshield, bilbo's just D-stracted dohohahaho, but honestly thorin's the more romantic one..., but then the fluff comes back, epiloguey, fluff MORE than angst i think, not as smutty as i'd hoped lol it's very nooon descriptive, okay then third and final chapter has the sad to the max, or at least a bittersweet ending is a comin, real short last chappy tho fyi, smol appreciation, the only angst really is the Ring makin its way downtown, thorin: look how smol - bilbo: look oUT hottie with a body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoom/pseuds/zoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The One Ring is already worming slowly into the Hobbit's heart, draining the peace from his rest. The King Under the Mountain helps him sleep, feeding an ever-growing preoccupation with his Burglar.</p><p>The Company thinks they're hilarious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Um so Bagginshield is too real. I've never tried a hand at this universe or pairing before but the inspiration struck, so I scribbled this down for fun. Total lala fluff, with not the slightest hint of action I'm afraid - which is why a more ~exploratory~ continuation may happen.
> 
> Sorry if Thorin comes across a little creepy or unhealthy... I know even innocent actions taken while someone is asleep can be a boundary violation. For the purposes of a quick and silly ficlet, though, I hope it's more cute than creepy?
> 
> Oh and Happy Valentine's!

            It was the habit of the Dwarven King to watch _within_ , as well as _without_. Upon his round to sentinel for the night, he looked not only for danger approaching, but also for that danger every Company may carry with them unknowingly:

            Exhaustion, hunger, fear... and insurrection.

            As his men slept, Thorin Oakenshield spared a brief inspection of each, wary of the signs that their bodies were weakening, or resolve failing.

            But it was especially over the Halfling he watched, oft with a scowl. The King’s kinsmen had proved their worth. This creature had _not_.

            That is, when they _began_ this journey, he had not.

            Since that first day upon the path, much had changed.

            It seemed at first that the Halfling had made the greatest change over the days. But Thorin had begun to wonder, was it only what he _saw_ in the Hobbit that had altered of late?

            In all his mistrustful night watches, all that seemed to lie curled in that half-sized bedroll was a child. Cowardly, burdensome, frivolous did the Hobbit appear to the Dwarf King.

            But not a _one_ of those things was Bilbo Baggins.

            Though the Halfling could scarcely wield his little dagger, he swung it bravely in defense of his wounded King. Though he tripped and fell much, none was so fast nor so stealthy as that little creature.

            And though the Hobbit spoke childishly of home, of books and armchairs and handkerchiefs, it was with an unparalleled integrity and kindness that he spoke of the _King’s_ home, and all _he_ held to be dear.

            All this, somehow, the watchful King Under the Mountain had utterly missed.

            Were all Halflings so sharp and true beneath that apparent softness?

            Or was it _this_ Halfling alone who made up such a paradox of gentle and jagged?

            As even the hare may draw blood with its tiny teeth, far cleverer and faster than it ever seems...

            But also like the hare, the Halfling was no less small, or soft, for all his courage and quickness in mind and on foot.

            He slept always in a protective ball, hands in fists near his mouth like a babe. His nose still twitched like a wee snout every now and then, as when he was awake. And he was ever much quieter in slumber than his snoring companions.

            Even when the nightmares began, it was with the quiet of a wounded mouse.

            There used to be a peace to the Halfling’s face in sleep, a serene stillness over his body. But not so long after the Goblin cave and the Eagle rescue, creases disturbed his sleeping brow, and unrest tensed and twitched in his bundled-up form.

            He never spoke of any haunting dreams come the morn. Perhaps he had no memory of what pervaded so suddenly into his calmest hour.

            And it is sometimes the unremembered nightmare that plagues the mind most, for no known _reason_ can then be given for waking unsettled, an unanswered question in the place of what frightened or stung so deeply in the night.

            Thorin’s nephews were never easy sleepers when they were small. Fili in particular, when his father fell, used to lie awake until dawn (his brother was still no more than an infant). So the lad’s mother would sit with him all night, and stroke his hair until sleep finally came.

            The King’s sister had shared this —Fili would _never_ have admitted to such coddling— as a lesson in parenthood, that one day Thorin might remember to try with his own future children as they struggled in the night.

            Many nights passed of watching and considering, before the Company leader tried to quell the unconscious struggle in the smallest of his party.

            Only with the assurance of every kinsman’s deep slumber, Thorin Oakenshield began to take his watch to the Halfling’s side. His eyes and ears still kept to the boundaries of the camp, ever alert. But his hand, that he allowed to stray from his sword-hilt, and sweep back the boyish curls from his Burglar’s brow.

            Hobbit hair was _absurdly_ thick and downy. Perhaps it was the fussy sense of hygiene his kind seemed to value the way Dwarfkind valued swordplay. The Halfling went off to wash at every rest that bordered a body of water, and he was oft to be found combing finicky fingers through his tresses.

            The little stirrings under the Dwarf King’s hand were so like a small animal shifting under its soft fur. At first Thorin paused at every twitch, but he found that the uncomfortable shifting slowed the more he touched the Hobbit’s hair in long, steady strokes.

            So the King would gently pet the creature until the creases smoothed from his brow, and the shallow breaths evened.

            Only once did he wake the Halfling.

            His bleary blinking took the Dwarf by surprise; he withdrew his touch instantly.

            “...Thorin?”

            The groggy utterance bared only so much wakefulness. But Thorin replied to it.

            “You looked... unwell,” he explained. “Are you?”

            Confused blinking persisted, then the Halfling shook his head.

            “Oh, no-no, nothing – all well, is. Quite,” dismissed the Burglar. A yawn interrupted his not-quite coherent response. He added as his eyes fell shut again, “Just a little... cold...”

            “You may have my furs,” said the King. He moved to undo the heavy cloak over his shoulders.

            “No, no-no-no,” the Hobbit protested as though he’d never heard a sillier offer. He squinted one eye open in a half-glare. “Not as _skin_ is cold.”

            Another yawn followed, and both eyes were again shut. The Halfling looked to be nearly back to sleep already.

            “But as a... a blade... is cold,” he mumbled.

            Never did their Burglar fail to bring a bemused smile to the Dwarf King’s hard features.

            “And what is the meaning of _that_ riddle?”

            But the riddle-maker was back to his slumber.

            The following day on the road, the Dwarf asked Balin what he deemed the difference to be between skin’s cold and a blade’s cold. His elderly cousin squinted at him.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Humor your King, Balin,” Thorin ordered, without the slightest severity. He gave no further explanation.

            After some stroking of his white, forked beard, the wise old Dwarf answered.

            “I suppose both blade and skin may heat and cool, given whatever surrounds it... but under skin flows hot blood. A blade’s inside is naught but steel.”

            The Company leader slowed to halt.

            “The difference is within,” he summed.

            “Aye, and blades can create no warmth. No folding in on itself and rubbing to preserve heat, just a rigid metal.”

            Rigid was perhaps the _least_ fitting word for the Halfling. Even in personality and behavior, Master Baggins demonstrated extraordinary adaptability.

            And certainly by touch—no, rigid was hardly the way to describe the feel of him.

            Among Men, the womenfolk were oft softer than their fellows. It was not so with Dwarves (nor, so far as the King could tell, was it so for the Elves – the males were _plenty_ delicate). Female Dwarves were just as hard and stocky as their brethren, their bosoms not nearly so soft as the other races’ women.

            The Halfling was all cushiony roundness. Even under his coats, the feel of him was remarkably soft when the Dwarf King first wrenched him into an embrace. It had struck him at the time, for the _first_ time, that such a very small and soft thing must have the courage of _ten_ Kings to face that which subdued a _Dwarf_ King.

            It was in _heart_ , perhaps, that one could compare the Hobbit to a blade. Sharp, unbending... but cold?

            The riddle’s answer only beckoned more questions.

            That was the first night Thorin lay down his bedroll right beside the Halfling’s. He did so without even glancing at the curly-haired creature clearly staring at him, as though there were no special design in the decision. But when he did finally allow his eyes to cast where the Hobbit sat atop his bed mat, his Burglar’s perplexed blinking turned quickly to a warm smile.

            The King Under the Mountain had fought off Orcs and Goblins of all sizes, parried the fangs of Wargs and fists of Trolls. And for all that, he still could not steel himself against one Halfling’s expression of honest delight. Nothing ripped so cleanly and easily through the King’s defenses.

            _You will be the death of me_ , _Bilbo Baggins_.

            But the Halfling snuggled unawares under his blanket, and the small smile Thorin had offered persisted even as the Burglar closed his eyes.

            It was a simpler matter now, lying not so far from him, to reach just a little ways and smooth his curls while he slept. Thorin didn’t always wait for the nightly frowns and whimpers. Sometimes at the very moment the Halfling seemed swept into unconsciousness, the Dwarf King’s impatience reigned over caution.

            And when the Halfling was facing him, it presented the new temptation to trace cheeks and brow.

            It tempted what began as a comforting touch to become an _adoring_ one.

            With his prudence so devolved, Thorin was of course discovered.

            Bofur was the first to waggle his dark eyebrows and grin like a madman at his King. Then the torment began.

            “Is there to be a _Queen_ Under the Mountain, then?” asked the Dwarf wickedly. “A _little_ , beardless Queen, hand-picked from the Shire?”

            Kili was the last to join the guffaws of realization among the Company.

            “You hear that, Bilbo? Thorin’s fixing to wed you!” the lad added, stripping all subtlety from the joke. (It never was Kili’s strong suit.) “How’d you like to be a King’s bride?”

            “He can wear the dishcloths with the holes he’s so fond off!”

            “Beads and ribbons for his hair, that’s a must!”

            Thorin treated the joint-mockery as though giving it any heed wasn’t worth his time. He responded to none of it, but looked no one in the eye, and maintained rather a scowl as he marched on.

            “ _Doileys_ , not dishcloths, and they are not _remotely_ serviceable as a wedding veil. Which, by the way, _most_ hobbit lads are _not_ prone to wear in marriage ceremonies. As such, I nominate Thorin as the veil-wearer.”

            The Halfling’s sarcastic participation in this devilry was met with overjoyed cackles.

            “Oh _Uncle_ , you’ll make such a _lovely_ bride!” Fili taunted.

            “He’ll have a gown of _Mithril_ , no less for our King.”

            “More ribbons in his beard than teeth in his head!”

            Thankfully there was no wizard witness to the humiliation. Perhaps some in his Company could be fooled, but Gandalf never would have mistaken Thorin’s red ears as the cold’s doing.

            It wasn’t the threat of dolling him up like a bride that preoccupied the King. It was how immediately and easily the Halfling played along with a joke falling far too close to its mark.

            Did it mean the notion of coupling could only be safely ridiculous to him?

            Or could it signify openness to the thought, as opposed to revulsion or dismissal?

            “If I’m not mistaken, he is a mere quarter of your age, my King,” even Balin contributed. “Perhaps you should put cradle-robbing to rest, and seek out an _elder_ mate.”

            “What, like _you_ , Balin?” Dwalin said to his brother, with a great clap on his belly as he laughed. “Are you cooking an underhanded scheme to rise the ranks against our own cousin and King?”

            “You would steal him from Bilbo?” Bofur, the ring-leader in all this, gasped with horror. “That _is_ an underhanded scheme!”

            “Shall you challenge him to a duel, Master Baggins?” asked one of Thorin’s _soon to be disowned if this kept up_ nephews.

            The Halfling was quick to retort.

            “I shall not! Better to part with my King than my _head_!”

            What followed was an eruption of laughter and croons. But Thorin heard none of it, stuck on what the Hobbit had just let slip.

            _My_ King.

            He dared to look back, just once, to the party behind him.

            Bilbo was laughing with the rest, but it was with a bashful, downturned expression. He was scratching repeatedly behind his ear, and the freckles on his cheeks had all but disappeared into cherry red.

            Thorin must have grown wide-eyed and fixated, because Bombur heartily slapped the King’s back as he passed him, muttering playfully, “ _Silver_ jewels shine even brighter than gold, eh Thorin?”

            As if on command, the Hobbit’s gaze rose and snared briefly on Thorin. His eyes seemed a pale blue under a clear sky, soft green beside the grass, and even dark sometimes in the night. But a presiding silvery grey toned every shifting color.

            His smile was brief and tight with apparent embarrassment. The eye contact lasted no more than seconds, before the Hobbit looked away again.

            That night Thorin hesitated, now that spies were evidently a problem in the Company. As he waited for the telltale cover of snores, nothing could shake his thoughts from centering round Bilbo Baggins.

            Whatever was keeping the Halfling from peace, this “cold” he spoke of... could Thorin Oakenshield stay it?

            Could his fiery, prideful heart be the protective sheath to the sweet, exposed heart his Burglar carried?

            His was a stronger heart than most, but enough weight will crack even iron. And of all the precious materials in the world, no damaged gold nor shattered crystal could match the _devastation_ of the tiny breaks and chips each night seemed to cut into the Halfling’s spirit.

            The Dwarf King was leaning over the Hobbit, toying with thick strands of hair.

            The Hobbit was _awake_.

            “Yours is a shy way of courtship, O King Under the Mountain,” murmured he with a teasing smile.

            As ever, under the power of that smile Thorin could do naught but return it.

            “Perhaps,” he said softly.

            Little Halfling hands reached up, and tucked themselves against the King’s tunic. He tugged the Dwarf slowly downward, and the Dwarf let him gently guide him until their foreheads were touching.

            A boot suddenly shot their way.

            “Oh save the snogging and the groping for the honeymoon, will you!”

            The ensuing laughter confirmed that nearly _all_ the Company was still awake.

            When Thorin whirled his head around and _glared_ in his kinsmen’s general direction, the chortling halted as immediately as it had burst.

            Except, of course, for Bilbo Baggin’s breathy cackles, evil little thing that he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarifications - Thorin was ~tempted~ to touch his face as well as hair, but it's never explicitly stated he DOES it. Not to mention, Bilbo might not have been the most asleep every time, if his unsurprised reaction is any indication. And he doesn't have any idea it's the Ring bugging him out in the night, without even a memory to place or explain the disturbance. Thorin hasn't either, of course, but unfortunately (according to the movies in particular), he'll come to know EXACTLY that very hollowness Bilbo is beginning already to feel, under the influence of the Arkenstone.
> 
> Lastly, Bilbo wasn't trying to be a drama queen with the cold blade comment - he was just half asleep and grasping at a way to describe the feeling of unplaceable lack and emptiness eating at the back of his mind, which just so happened to be induced by the most powerful evil in Middle Earth.
> 
> Wait double-lastly, yeah I'm also annoyed that the Dwarves friggin interrupted them before they could even KISS. Rude. Next time Thorin'll just have to drag the Hobbit off into the woods or something.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is just a coy horndog, Thorin can never be direct about anything, and Gandalf knows all.

            Dwarves, it seemed to Bilbo, acted upon each and every whim that presented itself - the very _moment_ it presented itself. _Brazen, ill-mannered folk_ , the Hobbit once thought huffily of the 13 troublemakers invading his beloved Bag End.

            But worst of all the Company of Dwarves was the thirteenth and last: the Dwarf King, Thorin Oakenshield.

            The others were crude, thoughtless, and ever ready to revel. They had driven the Hobbit nigh _mad_ as they paraded through Bag End’s rounded halls.

            Thorin possessed none of his men’s gaiety. A grim, foreboding air surrounded the tall Dwarf. One word or even _look_ from him commanded silence, even from the most irreverent party members.

            When first the King cast his intense, sapphire eyes over the Hobbit, he made no attempt to hide the _judgment_ and _condemnation_ in them.

            Where the other Dwarves laughed and teased, Thorin spoke with undue _cruelty_. Regarding Bilbo’s candidacy for Burglar, his opinion was likely no different from his men’s. Yet every guest, however quite uninvited, was sure to thank his poor Hobbit host. They all looked Bilbo in the eye, many times, with merriment in them as often as doubt.

            All that lay in Thorin’s hard gaze was suspicion, and ridicule.

            Save disapproval, the only shred of feeling came in song.

            Loss, waiting, _longing_ – of this and more sang the Dwarf King. No smiles or laughter remained of his Company when they lamented, in melody, the taking of their precious homeland.

            Dwarven impulsivity must be catching. That, or perhaps an enchantment lay interleaved within their song.

            Or, it could have been that the word “home” evokes “belonging,” as Bilbo did to Bag End, and to Hobbiton – as the Dwarves of Erebor no longer could claim to, of any place.

            Before Bilbo knew what he was about, he’d found himself racing to join Thorin Oakenshield’s Company of Dwarves and Wizard.

            On a long road, one makes more than a mere acquaintance of his traveling companions. Once past the question of poor manners, a charming uniqueness could be found of each Dwarf:

            The slow-headed rascals, Kili and Fili, were not only among the most talented swordsmen in the Company – theirs were the biggest smiles, the loudest bouts of laughter, and they would welcome _anyone_ into their fun.

            Bofur was a quick-witted chatter, Bombur a Hobbit-comparable gobbler. And although Bifur only spoke in unintelligible noises and gestures, the Dwarf conveyed himself with astonishing clarity.

            Among the most highly respected in the Company, old Balin was the trusted King’s advisor, Dwalin his wary right-hand man. Gloin loudly repeated his kinsmen’s words to his elder brother Oin, whose ears lacked the facility of their youth (but gentle and true were his healer hands). And Dori, Nori and Ori, they three ever looked to see that each sibling was safe, and well.

            And all of them, each and every one, had the iron heart of a warrior. Not the slightest hesitation hindered a single Dwarf from leaping into the fray after friends and family. Be it Trolls, Wargs, even Stone Giants – the Dwarves of Erebor would fearlessly defend their brethren.

            Even a mere Hobbit of the Shire, the Dwarves surrounded and protected, _fiercely_.

            Even Thorin Oakenshield.

            The Dwarf King’s near two centuries of age showed not in his handsome face, but in his remarkable _focus_ and _consideration_ (remarkable for a Dwarf, that is). In fact, the more Bilbo observed of Dwarves, the more it seemed the King of Erebor made for quite the _exception_ among his kin. Though no less of a brutish, abrupt creature, Thorin was still far more tentative and brooding than the rest.

            In battle, he raged like a wild animal with his sword, commanding his men in a thunderous voice. But in matters of a personal nature, the King was not at all like his rowdy fellowship. His was a closed disposition, which only opened with a sound and heavy _crack_ , as in the manner of opening an old, thick tome.

            He was not without warmth, as Bilbo had first assumed. His warmth was simply muted, reserved for his closest and most trusted loved ones. With his cousins, his gaze lost severity, and took on an appearance of respect and affection. With his rambunctious nephews, a familiar fondness could not but peek through his scolding and urging.

            Those who suffer the theft of everything – home, kin, livelihood – do not so easily lay bare their hearts again.

            So Bilbo began to understand the King Under the Mountain – not _like_ , per se, but _understand_.

            Were he still a small Hobbit lad, he might have suspected Thorin Oakenshield had simply stepped out of the pages of an ancient Hero’s tale. Even now, Bilbo could not be blamed for his awe whenever the Dwarf King led his people to battle. _Majesty_ was the truest word for the way in which Thorin lashed with his blade, hair flying, voice roaring.

            Still, he was a mannerless and unfeeling King, so far as he behaved towards the Company’s Burglar. Though the Hobbit’s life was indebted many times over to the protective leader, his gratitude dwindled under Thorin’s _annoyed_ , vindictive glares.

            But it came to be that Bilbo dwelled less and less on manners (or the _lack_ thereof), and more upon _trust_. Rather than wishing that Thorin might learn appreciation and courtesy, the Hobbit began to wish that _he_ might _earn_ his place in the Company, and in its leader’s good opinion.

            After all, why should a King at war _not_ doubt a clumsy, fussy little Hobbit?

            It was, perhaps, for _Bilbo_ to prove himself worthy of Thorin’s quest.

            This was not his reason for coming between the wounded King and a descending Orc blade. That came upon instinct, upon the shocking weight of watching the strongest of them all fall prey to the enemy. Bilbo had raced thoughtlessly to Thorin, for he knew now that _this_ was the way of this Dwarven Company.

            In life or in death, side-by-side would they ever hold true to one another.

            And as a member of this brave Company, Bilbo’s place was at Thorin’s side. No matter the difference in skill or in strength, in title or size – as the Dwarf King would risk himself even for his weakest follower, so the Hobbit Burglar had thrown his own self in the way of Thorin’s danger.

            Then the binding of Bilbo Baggins to Thorin Oakenshield began.

            The King’s rare warmth now _flooded_ from him. With Bilbo, he shared that very trust and friendship only his precious kinsmen knew. And it kindled the Hobbit’s opinion from distant admiration, to an all too new sense of _closeness_.

            Nothing evoked _sure affection_ like the way Thorin looked at him. There was no softer possible smile, no gentler words, than those meant for Bilbo. The Hobbit could only wonder with amazement how he, one second-rate Burglar, had become the object of a King’s tenderest gaze?

            As in all things personal, Thorin pursued the Hobbit with some hesitation. There was a courting glint in his eyes, an unrepentant fascination in every slightest touch – but he voiced nothing. It had taken Bilbo’s bluntness to draw the King’s tentative overtures to a resolution.

            And it became the habit of both to lie side-by-side in the night, hands clasped, until sleep fell over them.

            The first daylight expression of their... well, of whatever exactly was budding between them (perhaps mere puppyish infatuation, perhaps _more_...), was Bilbo’s doing.

            Keeping up only _just_ with the tallest Dwarf in their Company, the Hobbit coyly brushed his fingers near Thorin’s soldier-strong hand. When the Dwarf looked to him, Bilbo made a pinched little face, tipping his head in question. At first, Thorin was still and blank. Then just as the Hobbit began to withdraw his hand, Thorin caught it suddenly, and held it surely in his own.

            Not two minutes after, the Dwarves began to sing some merry, Dwarfish tune. Thorin’s brow turned deep, and he bellowed something at them in the native tongue of their race.

            The singing stopped, but there were lingering cackles.

            “What... what was that? What were they singing?”

            Thorin’s scowl became more exasperated than furious as he answered, “That... was a wedding song, Master Baggins.”

            “ _Oh_.”

            Now, minding one’s own business was _scarcely_ the practice of Hobbits. Even the mildest of them took every opportunity to peer into open windows, to chitchat away about the neighbors, and even to place bets on courting couples.

            But at least the _pretense_ was usually upheld that every private affair indeed was _private_. The window peepers and gossipers pretended _not_ to know of anything they oughtn’t.

            Dwarves made no such attempt, it seemed.

            With such a dearth of privacy, and an increasingly tumultuous road, nothing passed between Dwarf and Hobbit but handholding, and some huddling close in the night.

            Gandalf was witness to the first kiss.

            The Shapeshifter, Beorn, kept the most beautiful garden Bilbo had ever seen. A man that was also beast at intervals knew the natural world like his own kin – it was small wonder his was the most cared-for, liveliest and brightest land.

            For the first time in days, the Company was allowed to slow a little, to convalesce under the roof of a friend.

            The King and Burglar had thought they were alone. It was under a tree, in the midst of idle talk and dying sunlight. One face drew so close to the other, it took so little to simply do away with the distance between.

            “Ah, finally!”

            The Wizard’s interjection cut the moment short. Thorin looked about ready to _behead_ Gandalf for doing so, but the Wizard seemed not abashed in the slightest.

            “You can never be sure, of course, but so _intermingled_ were your futures, I guessed it right off!”

            “You... you _knew_?” Bilbo sputtered, almost insulted (Wizard or no, should a Hobbit’s future not be a matter of _privacy_??).

            Gandalf tapped above his left nostril, knowingly. “A Wizard has a nose for these things, you know.”

            “Perhaps he should be sticking that oversized nose _elsewhere_ ,” the Dwarf King suggested haughtily.

            “Oh, do carry on! I must offer my greetings to Beorn, and you must take advantage of what little time there is.”

            Gandalf’s words were too true, as usual. The time for rest passed so quickly, and what followed was a series of unending perils.

            No rest was to be had in any part of Mirkwood – not on the path, not in the Elvish jails, not in the barrel-escape that took them all the way to the docks of LakeTown.

            The one night of recuperation came when the people of LakeTown discovered the Dwarves of Erebor, and were promised a share in the Mountain’s wealth in return for aid.

            So approving of this bargain were the people, they offered the best beds of the best inn to their visitors. Thorin was even given a private room, with a large bed and a fireplace.

            When he was shown the room, the Innkeeper began urging Bilbo and the others to their own quarters.

            “The Halfling stays,” ordered Thorin.

            Bilbo wasn’t the only one who executed a complete double-take at the command. The Innkeeper blinked, and awkwardly escorted away the others, leaving the Burglar to room with the King.

            At the way Bilbo was _eyeing_ the bed, Thorin quickly cleared his throat.

            “This – my intention is only... that you should have every comfort for repose...”

            “...Oh. _Oh_ , of course, ’course!”

            Of _course_ the Company leader was much too preoccupied to think of... of any purposes for the bed _other_ than repose. Silly Hobbit, allowing his mind to cast into the gutters!

            Only, now that it _had_ , getting his imagination to _behave_ was proving most trying. Though this was, in essence, no different a scene from when they had slept hand-in-hand on the road... now, a door stood between all the world and the two of them. And no small, lumpy pair of bedrolls would they lie in, but one Man-sized bed, with proper sheets and pillows.

            Could a being of flesh really deny an earthy fancy or two?

            But a fanciful imagination rendered the process of sleep-readying a tad... _painful_...

            Particularly when Thorin wandered to the basin of hot water laid out for the Laketown guest, and with true Dwarfish nonchalance, wasted no time in peeling the travel-worn layers from his back.

            Bilbo’s first instinct was to turn away, instantly, with as little commotion as he could manage in the fluster of the moment. But upon second thought, the Hobbit had not once turned down an opportunity to scrub grime from his person... not to mention, it didn’t seem to be Dwarfish custom to express embarrassment at the exposure of flesh...

            He started to turn back around – but lost his nerve and twitched back away. This indecisive turning repeated at least three more times, until his eyes fell on something that utterly stilled him.

            Durin’s line, if the living descendants were any indication, carried an almost Man-like beauty. They were tall, a little leaner in frame and smoother in face than their kin. Kili and Fili were young, but still older than wee Ori – whose facial hair stretched thicker and longer than the Durin brothers, and whose nose was more beaked in typical Dwarfish aesthetic.

            As for Bilbo’s heritage, well... Hobbits tended to be round and gentle, and they tended to _enjoy_ being round and gentle. There were a few skinnier folk, and some with a little more muscle than others. But no figure bore much resemblance to the other races’ varying physiques.

            But this adventure did not come with the comforts of daily Hobbit life. It demanded an exertion of the body that few Hobbits had ever _needed_ to apply, even on the farms in winter. It had changed Bilbo in more than spirit – he was no longer quite so full-bellied, not so soft as a life of simple pleasures would lend.

            And never had he been so struck with _embarrassment_ for losing that proud jut to his belly than now – now, when a half-disrobed Thorin stood not four paces away, and his body was like something _crafted_ , carved from flesh and bone to geometric _perfection_.

            Thorin was a King of his species, in every possible way...

            And poor Bilbo had not even a proper Hobbit gut to show for himself!

            However, self-consciousness at his own body was quite overrun by _intrigue_ at the other, half-bare body in the room. And it was without another word that the Hobbit found his fuzzy feet taking him to the hot-water basin.

            Glancing several times between the basin and Thorin, Bilbo tentatively began removing his waistcoat and vest.

            Before placing both in neat folds on the floor, his fingers quickly scanned the fabric for one of the pockets. When he found what he sought, the Hobbit felt cool, smooth gold against his skin.

            It was only natural to check on one’s trinkets. But Bilbo had found himself reaching into his pocket even when he _wasn’t_ checking that he still had the ring he’d picked up.

            Habits form quickly. And surely, an inclination to touch or hold such a tiny thing could not be so bad a vice! Although it was indubitably his own imagination, Bilbo would almost say that the ring’s touch made him... stronger. More alert, more _able_... simply _more_ than he was before.

            It took longer to set down the pocketed ring than Bilbo had intended. By the time he finally did let it be with his coats, Thorin was looking at him.

            Water droplets glistened on his skin. The tone of it had reddened a little here and there from scrubbing, and his hair was a wild damp nest.

            There were scars and there were bluish patches, but it all seemed almost ornamental to the chiseled flesh they belonged to. His form was taut, thick at the shoulders and toned such that with every motion, his body almost seemed to _ripple_.

            Thorin said nothing. With a little smile, he moved aside enough to give Bilbo room by the water basin. And Bilbo, rather entranced more so than shy, filled the space offered to him.

            He didn’t quite muster the courage to take off completely his last shirt. Instead he loosened it, and rubbed with a damp washing cloth underneath. Thorin stayed where he was for a few moments, Bilbo _feeling_ his gaze on him still, before the King laughed softly and drew away.

            The firelight was meager. By the time all nightly preparations had concluded, Bilbo was first to scuttle under the bed-sheets. He wasn’t altogether sure _how_ he would manage sleep, when the foremost image blazing in his mind was his bedmate’s shirtless figure...

            A sudden and noisy dip in the human bed signified Thorin’s arrival. Bilbo turned on his back to peer at him, hiding his red cheeks under the blankets so that only his eyes peeked out.

            Thorin peered back, with a raised eyebrow. In yet another finicky flash of self-consciousness, Bilbo snuggled away with his back to the King. Again, there was that deep chuckle...

            The Hobbit started when all at once, he was tugged back against the _still_ bare torso of a beautiful Dwarf King.

            Oh dear... this was _not_ helping matters!

            But Bilbo did his best to quell himself whilst in Thorin’s embrace.

            His arms locked around the littler creature as though letting go were _dangerous_. Bilbo didn’t imagine he could break free even with his utmost efforts! _If_ he’d wanted to, that is.

            What followed should not, perhaps, have surprised the Hobbit as it did. Thorin Oakenshield may have been a tentative admirer, but in bodily action, he was unhesitating and fervent...

            It was after some quiet moments, just feeling the heat from one body against another, that one of Thorin’s hands moved. It tugged gently at the loose neckline of Bilbo’s shirt. Then there were soft, slow presses of beard-scratchy kisses making their way along the Hobbit’s exposed shoulder and neck.

            Bilbo was holding his breath to suppress any unseemly noises down in his throat. It wasn’t _fair_ , to have Thorin’s lips and fingers on him in the night... even a leg was starting to hook possessively over Bilbo’s, while his thick hand slipped underneath the Hobbit’s untucked shirt.

            _Well, that does it_ , Bilbo thought to himself.

            He gave in to the urge to lean and gasp into Thorin’s attentions. Tilting his head back, Bilbo found Thorin propped up slightly, face hovering just above Bilbo’s...

            Gently at first, as in Beorn’s garden, the two fell into an unbreaking succession of kiss after kiss. Touches became greedier by the minute, a desperate edge growing in the pace and pressure of each kiss.

            Their lips finally broke apart with Bilbo’s giggles.

            “Repose _indeed_ ,” he huffed with a grin, “Your _only_ intention? Thorin Oakenshield, _you_ ,” the Hobbit poked the thick chest looming above his own, “are a _liar_.”

            “That, Master Baggins,” replied the Dwarf with a more muted grin of his own, “is a _treasonous_ accusation...”

            Bilbo couldn’t be sure how deep into the night Thorin kept him wide-awake. The moon was bright in their window by the time they detangled from one another, short of breath and starry-eyed.

            Longbottom Leaf was among the most powerful and unique of Hobbiton pipe-weeds. Bilbo preferred to save it for special occasions, but Gandalf was scarcely seen without it – small wonder the wizard extended such brusque etiquette...

            From the remains of his journey’s supply, Bilbo scooted to the edge of the bed and began filling his pipe. Thorin allowed him a moment’s separation before securing his arms once again around him, collecting the Hobbit right up into his lap.

            When the leaf was lit, Bilbo had taken only one drag before Thorin leaned around, enclosed a grip around the wrist upholding the pipe, and pulled Bilbo’s hand back until he could steal a long gulp from the pipe’s stem.

            Bilbo watched with a mischievous light in his eyes. If Thorin noticed it, he could guess its meaning only too late.

            At once, the Dwarf’s brows furrowed deeply, and his jaw set. He released the smoke with intensive concentration, but still his breath stumbled.

            Stubborn to the bone, Thorin was striving _not_ to cough on the most prized pipe-weed of the Shire. And Bilbo had to burst out laughing at the _severity_ of his expression.

            “Stronger than you thought?” he summed between giggles.

            Thorin sighed, features softening with a little good-humor.

            “You’d think I’d have learned by now, never to underestimate what comes out of the Shire,” the King said with a smile, and added, “Even if it squeaks like a garden mouse in bed...”

            “I _beg_ your pardon!” Bilbo feigned outrage. “Hobbits do _not_ squeak, thank you _kindly_.”

            “And now who’s a liar?” laughed Thorin, brushing his nose briefly against Bilbo’s.

            “Well I don’t know if you’re aware, _Oakenshield_ , but by _your_ sounds one might’ve mistaken you for a _water buffalo_ in rut! It’ll be a miracle if the neighboring rooms didn’t hear...”

            Thorin shrugged.

            “So let them hear.”

            The face Bilbo made at this suggestion had Thorin laughing again, the same smile on him as when he watched the Hobbit wash with his shirt still on, or hide half his face under the bed covers. Goodness, you’d think he’d never witnessed a little modesty before!

            When at last Bilbo fell asleep that night, there seemed little left of the night to sleep through. But through the rest of the darkness he did take his repose – until it was the barest sliver of morning, and his eyes shot open with a gasp on his lips.

            _Where is it??_

            He was _missing_ something, something _terribly_ important – something _precious_...

            For a moment, Bilbo forgot about his bedfellow and their night together. He forgot there was a quest to fulfill, forgot about Wizards and Dragons and Tall Folk.

            In a frenzy, the Hobbit tore through the Hobbit clothes strewn about the room. He found his waist-coat and vest, and jammed his hand into every pocket.

            When the Ring was in his grasp, cool and heavy, the sudden panic instantly calmed. It was not lost. It was still _his_...

            And although as ever, he felt suddenly clearer, cleverer and fiercer than ever had he before the Ring came to him... at the same time, a strange sense of... _loss_ came with it – as though to have this new strength, something else had to be taken away...

            He felt power and certainty like never before. But where there had once been a sense of solace, of humble contentment... there was nothing.

            Every touch of the Ring left him feeling hollowed out, and filled with something strong, but soulless... and _cold_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Now we get Bilbo's perspective on Thorin's ridiculously contradictory nature. And on his bod. Yes.
> 
> I've always thought Hobbits were proud of their pudginess, that it was just part of the Hobbit ideal... so Bilbo is only self-conscious in how comparatively un-pudgy all this journeying has made him lol! But not self-conscious enough to pass up on a hot bod. xD I guess it would make sense then if muscle isn't usually what Hobbit's are especially into, but hey now. Hey.
> 
> Have you SEEN Richard Armitage shirtless?
> 
> Tell me Hobbits would deem that bod unattractive THEN...
> 
> And happy belated birthday to me! This is my gift to myself lol, Hobbit/Dwarf fluffsex. ^_^


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death and all that fun stuff...

            _Gold_.

            No... it was not gold on the horizon. It was the arc of an Eagle’s powerful wing, framed with sunlight.

            Thorin might have laughed, were he able. All he could give was a guttural heave of breath. Upon his tongue was a coppery tang, red slipping from the corners of his mouth.

            Ironic, he supposed. The very last gleam of gold Thorin Oakenshield’s eyes would ever behold was naught but sun on feathers.

            He’d shed the inherited obsession of his forefathers. Gold Sickness had turned him from Dwarf to Beast. It had changed his reflection in the golden sheen floor of Erebor. The King glaring up from the metal surface back at Thorin was _not_ Thorin.

            It was his grandfather, Thror. It was the twisted face Thorin once feared as a young Dwarf Prince. It was the visage of a King whose one and only love was gold, with no tenderness leftover for brethren.

            But the King Under the Mountain had seen his weakness too late.

            Already he’d abandoned what was most precious of all...

            _“Thief,” he’d spat, fire in his voice._

_Oh, give Thorin another dragon to vanquish. Give him three!_

_For Thorin now knew, there were creatures far, far_ **viler** _than a beast of scales and flame._

_It was not the mountainous monsters to be feared._

_It was the_ **smallest** _of creatures._

_“Throw him from the ramparts!”_

_Smaug, Azog, the Goblin and Elven Kings – none were the enemy to cut the deepest._

_No... it was **Bilbo Baggins**._

_Under the pretense of love did the most hateful strike fall._

_But Thorin’s kinsmen disobeyed his order. They stared. In their eyes was such confusion and sadness._

_He was asking them to execute the very Hobbit they’d laughingly thrown flower petals on in Lake Town. (It was in the spirit –or in_ jest _— of Dwarfish tradition. One showers newly weds in rice or petals, specifically when they first emerge from their chambers after their wedding night. The Hobbit in question had balked and grumbled about Dwarfish impropriety all day.)_

_Yet this was a traitor. Not a comrade, not a loved one – a_ thief _._

_The heartless betrayer of such a fragile trust..._

...Now, it had been many hours hence since the King had thought to throw from the ramparts the one he’d given all to.

            Many hours, many bloody, wild... very last hours.

            Thorin Oakenshield could no longer stand o’er the cliff top of Ravenhill. The scene below of five different races, all bleeding for their kin, slipped away.

            He fell. He stared blankly at the clouding skies. And Thorin Oakenshield waited for death.

            But a hand suddenly took his cold palm, and a face loomed over him.

            And because it was Bilbo Baggins’ round face, Thorin believed, at first, that his departure for the halls of Aulë had already begun.

            Bilbo’s hand was shaking and warm. The horror in his eyes was no death-dream.

            Thorin had been wrong.

            The last golden light the King Under the Mountain would see was not sun on feathers.

            It was sun on fair Hobbit curls.

            And it was the most beautiful rays of gold he had ever seen.

...

            Leaving Frodo his Ring was like the snapping of a spell over Bilbo Baggins.

            Suddenly age had found and worked him over, after a near century of evasion.

            Rivendell was a wonderful place, but he had begun waking up forgetting he wasn’t still in Bag-End, off to prepare his nephew some First Breakfast.

            He was forgetting names. He would squint at the stuffy lord of Rivendell and shuffle through names like “Illrond” and “Elgroaned” before landing finally upon the correct one. Gandalf choked on his pipe weed every time, while Elrond glared at the wizard.

            Gandalf he never forgot in name, but his new attire did repeatedly surprise the elderly Hobbit when the Wizard visited.

            “There’s a lovely gown,” he’d tease. “Is the groom about?”

            The white-robed Wizard would laugh, and remind Bilbo that he was now known as Gandalf the White.

            But the Wizard was at his most solemn when Bilbo forgot not names, or attire or titles... but _presence_.

            Bilbo, in his last years, began to forget who had passed on before him.

            He began to expect long-gone friends to answer his letters, to meet him for dinner or in the gardens.

            He began asking questions Gandalf couldn’t answer, concerning the whereabouts or disposition of the dead.

            And he began ranting about Dwarves – in of all places, a home of Elves – as though he’d only _just_ spent the past year among them. He ranted about _specific_ Dwarves, even confusing his retirement to Rivendell with his long ago quest merely passing _through_ Rivendell.

            “Thorin” was the Dwarfish name he repeated most, and the name he never forgot.

            Even in the Undying Lands, he did not forget.

            The Gray Havens were like a sweet lullaby before permanent sleep. It sang away the confines of an elderly body and mind, healing all scars, within and without.

            Even in the Undying Lands, all mortals must sometime take leave of their bodies. They must journey through Valinor, to the Halls of the Makers, and there let their spirit dwell.

            And on that one, final journey, Bilbo Baggins made for the _warmest_ of all deathly hearths – the Hall of Aulë, Maker of the Dwarves – as his spirit’s eternal home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN! That's it! That is a behind-the-scenes supplemental story of gay. I mean love. And loss. And ever afters in Valinor, not that my knowledge of the Undying Lands and all that is extensive... this is just one interpretation. :B According to some of Tolkien's notes and stuff, he said something to the effect of how even the ring-bearers and mortals allowed into the Gray Havens would have eventually died. And then there's all different ideas about Middle Earth after-life.
> 
> I'm interpreting it as the immortals go to the Undying Lands, the ring-bearers and Gimli got to chill there bc they're special snowflakes and live for an extended period, before they die like all mortals. Then all mortal souls go to a separate part of the Valar's lands, generally to wherever their Makers chill. Hobbits I think are close enough cousins to Men that they would often go where Men do (the halls of Mandos?), so Bilbo's made the choice to go to a different one.
> 
> I like to think it's not restrictive, though, once you choose a hall. Like you can then take your spirit wherever for visiting other species' souls... but the GENERAL full-time home of one's soul is a single Hall where their family/loved ones would be. So Bilbo could still visit Bagginses and Tooks and all the fam, but he settling down with the Dwarf hubby and his dead nephew-in-laws. And Ori and Balin, they would've been dead from Moria by then... No now they're all happy in Valinor partying every day with Hobbit tea and Dwarven ale and all the songs and dances.
> 
> So this ain't a fixit story, but it is a interpret-it-as-happy-in-afterlife story. ^_^
> 
> THANKS SO MUCH YOU GUYS FOR COMMENTS/KUDOS/JUST CHECKING IT OUT. Hope you enjoyed!!! I haven't replied to any comment because I'm a shy derp, but I am so so so so gratified by the kind words dropped here and just, thank you bunches and have a fantastic day!!


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